The Horseman on the Roof by Jean Giono Page A

horse. Angelo in fact recognized his horse. The man rode like a sack of spoons. “Watch your step,” Angelo told himself: “don’t lose face before a peasant who will certainly be dumfounded at the story you’ve got to tell him, but afterward will have everybody laughing at your drawn face.” That steadied his legs and he stood waiting, stiff as a post, preparing a short, extremely nonchalant sentence.
    The horseman was a bony young man whose long arms and legs bounced with the horse’s trotting. He was hatless, though wearing a respectable coat, and tieless; moreover the coat was all covered with hay dust and even with cruder filth, as if he had emerged from a henhouse. “I should have kept my spade,” thought Angelo. He stepped into the road and said sharply: “I see you’re bringing me back my horse.”
    â€œI hardly hoped to find its rider still on his legs,” said the young man. Pushing back the long hair that his ride had shaken down over his forehead, he revealed an intelligent face. His short curly beard failed to conceal a pair of fine lips, and his eyes were certainly not those of a peasant.
    â€œHe didn’t throw me,” said Angelo very proudly and fatuously. “I dismounted when I saw the first corpse.” He had realized his fatuity, but counted on the word “corpse” to redress the balance. He had been disconcerted by the lips and by those eyes so clearly accustomed to irony.
    â€œThen there are corpses here, too?” said the young man very calmly. Whereupon he made efforts to dismount, and finally succeeded, very clumsily, although his mount was a stout cart horse. “Did you touch them?” he said, staring fixedly at Angelo. “Are your legs cold? Have you been here long? You look queer.” He undid a satchel tied with cords to the strap that held down the folded blanket he was using for a saddle.
    â€œI’ve just arrived,” said Angelo. “Perhaps I do look queer, but I shall be interested in how you look when you’ve seen what I’ve seen.”
    â€œOh!” said the young man, “probably I shall vomit just as you did. The main thing is that you shouldn’t have touched the corpses.”
    â€œI killed a dog and some rats that were eating them,” said Angelo. “I did it with a spade. These houses are full of dead people.”
    â€œI thought you must have been throwing your weight about,” said the young man. “You’re just the type. Do your legs feel cold?”
    â€œI don’t think so,” said Angelo. He was more and more disconcerted; his legs were not cold, but they once more seemed like cotton wool and very flimsy.
    â€œNobody ever thinks so,” said the young man, “until the moment when they know. Drink some of this, take a good swig at it.” He held out a flask that he had pulled out of his satchel. It was a rough liqueur, flavored with herbs and very raw-tasting. At the first gulp—and he had gone to it eagerly—Angelo lost his head and would have laid into the young man with his fists if he had not been gasping for breath. He had to be content with glaring ferociously through eyes filled with tears. Still, after several violent sneezes, he felt restored, and his legs felt solid beneath him.
    â€œTo get to the point,” he said, as soon as he could speak, “will you tell me what’s going on?”
    â€œWhat?” said the young man. “Don’t you know? Where are you from? It’s cholera, morbus, my friend. The finest shipment of Asiatic cholera we’ve ever had! Have another round,” he said, holding out the flask. “Trust me, I’m a doctor.” He waited till Angelo had sneezed and wept. “I’m going to have one myself, too, see?” He took a drink, but did not seem to be disturbed by it. “I’m used to it,” he said. “It’s kept me going for three days.